


Weapons and Hands

by NeoQwerty



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind
Genre: Dagoth scarabs are flying piranhas that scare the living daylight out of the Chimer, Fluff, GHARTOKI as actual marks, M/M, Nerevar and Voryn bond over social taboos, Pre-Slash, can be read as close friendship, the Black Hand of Mephala is a curse, the rating is mostly because of the description of what the Dagoth scarabs do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-08-21 01:51:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16567325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeoQwerty/pseuds/NeoQwerty
Summary: The Chimer are a superstitious lot, even those of the settled Houses, and sometimes it means they see a part of one's self as an aberration or curse.Indoril Nerevar and Voryn Dagoth, on the other hand, see it as an unusual common ground. Nerevar has no fears of the red scarabs under Voryn's control, and a lucky lapse in Voryn's control on them leads Nerevar one step closer to being comfortable with the writhing sigils marking his palms.And it's the closest the Hortator has come to holding someone's hand willingly.





	Weapons and Hands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cliffracerx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cliffracerx/gifts).



> I have been encouraged to wade in the waters of NereVoryn. So here's a thing that can be interpreted as either really close friendship, or as pre-slash. Basically there's hand stroking by kind-of-proxy and then almost-hand-holding.
> 
> Blame cliffracerx for it with that rewrite of Of Moon-And-Star getting me hyped.

It isn't often anymore that Nerevar has time to simply _breathe_ and let himself be. Always something or another, a pressing problem to address, someone to cajole or threaten or take out of the picture. But today, the stars have aligned such that not only does he have time to himself, but Voryn has similarly found some time in his own busy schedule to come visit him in Mournhold. It's a rare enough thing that Nerevar is already put in a good mood at the mere anticipation of finding Voryn and spending a tranquil, comfortable moment with what he would dare to call one of his closest friends.

It isn't hard to spot Voryn today, as the reflexive ways other Chimer going about their business part and give Grandmaster Dagoth a wide berth leads the Hortator's eyes. Voryn has brought his beetle swarm today, and everyone else is terrified and repulsed by the voracious little flesh-eating bugs, hence their current treatment. Personally, Nerevar finds it unwarranted; he's seen both Voryn and several others of House Dagoth's main noble line handle their Dagoth scarabs around him, and not once has one slipped its magic leash and even pinched at him. The fear that the swarm currently resting on Voryn's collar, sleeves and hair will suddenly spring into flight and turn into an all-consuming mass of ruby carapaces, stained-glass wings and clicking mandibles leaving behind nothing more than bloody skeletons is rather insulting, even.

Nerevar greets Voryn with the slightest upturn of his mouth and a light nod, a smile obvious in his bright blue eyes, and as always, he finds a quiet swelling warmth within his chest as Voryn smiles back at him, a small and carefully measured thing that is nonetheless genuine. To them, these small gestures might as well be the broadest of eager grins shared at the idea that they have time to simply be themselves in good and trusted company.

They chatter amiably as they head into Nerevar's study (after a quick look to ensure that Vehk has not chosen it as his napping spot for the moment) and settle into seats with some gorapple tea, trading news of projects, House health and personal successes, and Nerevar grows increasingly unselfconscious. They're letting the scarabs wander away from Voryn's robes and hair and onto the desk, and from there to Nerevar's wrapped forearms, without any notion of fear or disgust to make Voryn uncomfortable in letting the bugs wander off and onto his friend and Lord.

As they talk, one of the scarabs wanders into Nerevar's palm as the Hortator is using vague hand motions to illustrate his point and paint the setting for his friend, and Nerevar freezes like a deer in headlights. He doesn't like his palms touched, and with good reason; for most of his life, the marks worn there have been seen as a curse from Mephala, as two Black Hands branding him as an ill omen and born killer. The number of people who identified the marks as something else could be counted with one hand, and the Hortator has made it a point to wrap his hands to conceal them, and to avoid touching people and objects so as to not stain anything with their darkness. And yet here he is, shifting his hand to show it palm-up, and the bright red scarab crawling in tight circles almost frantically over the mark, as if it's somehow aware and excited at the proximity.

"...Voryn? What is it trying to do?"

There is a long pause, and when Nerevar glances up from his palm, Voryn is just as puzzled by the beetle's new behavior. "I admit I am uncertain. It seems to feel... Right, being there, and that is all I can explain."

Nerevar isn't quite satisfied with that answer, not when the questions simply multiply as he looks down again to watch the ruby-shelled bug, though he has to admit that Voryn's assessment isn't wrong. As strange as the sensation of something scratching at his hand-wrapping is by itself, the fact that it's one of the Dagoth scarabs? Doesn't make him want to flinch or quickly redirect the contact, and it's oddly... Pleasant. It makes sense, in a roundabout way; the sigil on his hands is supposedly the sign of some sort of ultimate weapon, and Voryn's scarabs, as beautiful and well-behaved as they are, serve as one of House Dagoth's most terrifying weapons. Nerevar finds that the idea pulls a rare grin out of him, and he raises his eyes to aim it at Voryn.

"Perhaps your weapon thinks mine its mirror-twin. What I see now is a reasonable motivation to set aside a bit more time together. We must know the truth of it, after all." His voice is facetious, but he does mean it when he says he would like more time of his own to spend it with Voryn. His declaration brings a quiet chuckle from Voryn, and soon the both of them are back to their discussions of every subject that might interest the other, and suggestions to solve current troubles. The only change is that Nerevar slowly gets used to the beetle's skittering over the fabric hiding his mark.

Later, as Voryn prepares to leave, Nerevar finds himself staring down anew at the weapon-pet circling, now at a more sedate pace, and he presses his tongue to the back of his teeth, deliberating for a moment. He knows Voryn is aware of his dislike toward having his hands touched, just as Nerevar's found out Voryn has some mysterious aversion toward sun-runes when gilt in warm metals like gold or copper. They've both wordlessly accommodated the other's quirk without calling attention to it. But today... Perhaps the repeated contact has emboldened Nerevar, for he holds out his hand, fingers loose and relaxed, to offer back the beetle lingering behind instead of wandering back to its master.

"You seem to be forgetting one of your friends. Not that I'd terribly mind if you left me a pet, but the staff might not be brave enough to see a Dagoth scarab without a Dagoth Chimer accompanying it."

"True, my lord. I'll fly it off--"

"Just use your hand, _sweet Voryn_." He points his jab toward over-familiarity, countering Voryn's lapse into a formality the Hortator is incredibly annoyed with, though perhaps he misjudges the force of the strike. The Grandmaster looks up from Nerevar's hand to his eyes, and they silently gaze at the other, as if waiting for the other to yield and look elsewhere. Finally, Voryn makes a decision, and the back of his fingers and nails press down against Nerevar's palm to scoop his wayward beetle away from its orbit. The only reaction is a small clatter as the Hortator's ears twitch, earrings striking one another, before Voryn withdraws his hand and the silence turns from anticipation to slight awkwardness.

Their goodbyes are perhaps a touch hurried, and the moment Nerevar closes the door to his study, all the air rushes out of his lungs in a loud whoosh, stretching his lips into a secret little smile, giddy, as his ears begin to heat with a blush. He murmurs to himself, quietly, "...see, you _can_ touch others with the marks without needing to dread it." It is an incredibly freeing concept. And he has Voryn and his lovely pet swarm to thank for the gift.


End file.
